


Lost from the Start

by manily



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, At least Frodo is adorabs, Closure, Don't you ruin him either Gandalf, Gen, Life after Quest, Sad hobbit, Srsly this is your fault Gandalf, Thanks for ruining everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-14
Updated: 2014-01-14
Packaged: 2018-01-08 16:14:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1134785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manily/pseuds/manily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For too long, he'd imagined a green, rounded door and pushing his way inside.  That one instant of welcoming himself home had soothed his spirits through the worst of times.  So now, standing in familiar halls, he had to wonder - how could he be as ill-suited for returning home as he had been in leaving it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost from the Start

**Author's Note:**

> Sooooo playing with the timeline a bit. Frodo is much younger than he should be when he comes to stay with Bilbo; babby hobbits are much better healers y'know.
> 
> Enjoy!

His books. His armchair. His garden. The rattled off list had been short but enough, and he remembered even now how such simplicities had made his heart ache all those years ago. For the first half of that adventure he'd thought he'd never see his hobbit hole again and it was there in the second half that he'd been positively certain with each building disaster of swift moving rapids, ill-tempered dragons and booming war horns that the probability of death would swallow him whole. But against all odds, his luck had held and he'd survived to see green and sunshine twine and bathe a familiar sight on a crested hill. 

And that was when the list had expanded. 

He'd missed the latch on his gate. The smell of honeysuckle in his nose and in his ears, the stomp of worn soles on stone steps. The feel of his rounded door upon pushing it open. And every crochet doily, fine dishware, handkerchief, picture frame, clutter, trinket and hoarded accessory in Bag End's empty halls; he'd missed everything. 

He was home. For a time, at least.

Gandalf had warned him, Bilbo supposed. If he were to return, he would not be the same. At the time, the frazzled pleasantries and weariness of that unexpected night had had him sinking into his armchair and focusing solely on the if. If he returned. If he survived. If he managed to do the likely impossible, he'd resettle in Bag End with some bruises, possibly a few scars and some knowledge of the outside world. He did not think he would lose sight of everything which had seemed so important before. That he'd come back more Took than Baggins. More dwarvish than hobbit.

Once, he'd accused them, his dwarves, of not belonging anywhere, and even standing within the walls of which he'd missed every step of the way East, he'd found that home was just as far away as before. Was that the change? That he was ill-suited? Ruined for this life? If these rooms couldn't house him with their silence, that he found himself thinking they were more fit for laughter and song as they'd last been, well, where was he meant to be then? What was he expected to do?

Endure and push and prevail as he had before.

So he'd sputtered and scoffed, haughty frustration and perhaps a wounded heart having pushed him as they had through his adventure and he'd tried to reimmerse. But see, the clothing neatly hanging in his wardrobe, every stitch intact and every button in place, had felt wrong on his skin. Too clean. Too confining. Was it sane to miss the itch of dirt? Or the ripped stitches of his coat broadening the width of his reach? No. It wasn't. But he'd taken to wearing his previous day's outfit anyway. Never hanging it up, he strew it over the back of a chair and redressed in the morning, and for a week's time, he felt a little more put together, even if he looked less so. Until, of course, one day out in the market, he noticed the great deal of attention being paid to the dirt smudged on his trousers and the few stitches of his arm-cuffs pulled free.

He couldn't say he stopped such nonsense, but returning to the market was an outing he frequented less, which unfortunately, only intensified the whispers amongst his perturbed onlookers. 

Because a respectable hobbit kept a full pantry, correct?

In all his life, the selection of food in Bag End had been immense. As endless as such a thing could have been. It had only been utterly depleted once and it should have stayed that way. However, he'd found himself not wanting second breakfast. Or elevensies. Or a midnight snack that wasn't anywhere near midnight. For too long, he'd been forced to adapt to rationed meals – three, if lucky – and while his appetite would have returned if given a taste of familiarity, he'd found himself resisting. He remembered sitting on a log once, staring down into the dark, muddy color of his dinner, and telling Bofur, with all certainty, that when the quest was over, he'd never have the stomach for stew again, because day in and day out, watered down stew with too few potatoes and barely there substance was the main dish of those many, many months. Even so, he whittled down his pantry stock without making pies or muffins and toward the end, when supplies weeded out, he took to his stews.

When onions were all that were left, he returned to the market with his scuffed knees and loose threads, only purchasing enough to last him the week and never to fill the shelves. Least to say, the gossiping took like wildfire after the first few visits, because what was a hobbit without a full pantry? What if someone were to stop by for tea and Mister Baggins could not properly entertain?

But no one ever did find their way to his doorstep.

The halls stayed silent and he became Mad Baggins. He had more than enough memories to keep him occupied though, so he did not miss making new ones with folk who would never understand or relate. Instead, he had his stews, his ruined clothes and the sound of his own voice bouncing off the walls as he stood just so by the fireplace, humming through haunting verses. And if he spent his day starring outside the window too long or sitting outside smoking, often glancing down the road as though waiting, there was no one there to comment anyway. 

Until, of course, one day there was.

Little Frodo Baggins brought with him light and voice and the scurry of fast feet. For years, Bilbo had convinced himself that Bag End was fit to withstand excited noise, but it was a strange thing to weather at first. To find someone standing behind him, high-voiced and eager for attention was jarring. To see tiny hands around an empty cookie jar and asking with large, innocent eyes where the cookies had gone was worse. And to remember how to care for a simple skinned knee that didn't require anyone scrambling for medicine or bandages or sloppy stitches, took more time than it should have. He was a hobbit. A Baggins of Bag End and while being simple was not quite as simple as it was meant to be, Bilbo gradually found what had been lost so long ago.

Freshly cleaned and tailored clothes and a restocked pantry could never fully knit his tattered reputation back together, but it salvaged it enough that his oddity did not drag Frodo's youthful spirit and standing through the mud as well. Frodo became his new and only adventure, and all thoughts of his travels outside the Shire were pushed to the back of his mind for another time, another day when he could afford to be unrespectable again. But just as he was a Baggins, Frodo was too. And Bagginses were clever, insightful creatures, were they not? 

Frodo watched with the curiosity of any child, but he explored as well, and spurred on by gossip of a time Bilbo ran off with a lot of dwarves, Frodo found the key to a stubbornly forgotten chest, leaving Bilbo to come across the smaller hobbit digging through his past. He'd never made mention of trolls or elves or dragons before, and he'd meant to keep them to himself so Frodo would not become like him, with youthful imagination and unused ambition that could later impress a wizard, but gazing down at a shirt made of white and a worn map amongst a pile of trinkets, he'd soon found blue eyes unabashedly staring up at him and a simple request to, “Tell me about your adventure, please Uncle?”

The chest still remained locked after that, but bedtime stories took a turn and Bilbo recounted bits and pieces of his past, slowly at first but quickly growing as the occasional hurt eased with the rapt attention Frodo paid each word. And when that little body was half buried into the pillow, Bilbo laid a kiss on his brow and closed the door behind him, his gaze often catching on the moonlight shining on the windowsill. 

As time went by, clothes weren't immediately changed or cleaned if a spot of dirt made its way onto fabric and stew soon reappeared on the menu. However, when a bowl of water and vegetable was served once a week, it wasn't to be eaten at the table. Nor was it enjoyed in the sitting room. Instead, Frodo's fingers found Bilbo's and pulled him outside with excited tugs, babbling on about, “This was how you and the dwarves used to do it, Uncle,” while leading him to a patch of earth bordering the garden. Sitting in the grass, with sun on his face and wind in his hair, it was there that Bilbo could ignore the passing hobbits who found fault with a picnic without a blanket or napkin and instead, smile for Frodo, take a slurp of stew and then begin with a bit of storytelling.

And while he wasn't the same and he was quite changed, the blend of his old life and new made him think that he still belonged. That maybe this could still be home after all.


End file.
